Was she a groupie or
wasn’t she? In a 2006 Op-Ed piece in UK’s The
Independent, Germaine Greer, the feminist provocateur
wrote: “Before Linda Eastman married Paul McCartney she
was known to the other female habituées of the Fillmore
East and Max's Kansas City as Linda Starfucker. For
years Ms. Eastman cast her line for rock millionaires
with a lack of success so conspicuous that she was a
standing joke.”
I can’t dispute Ms. Greer’s anonymous sources but I can
dispute her characterization. I knew Linda Eastman and
she was no joke. She was a gifted photographer and a
working single mother. Linda had unfettered access to
artists like Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton,
Simon and Garfunkel, The Who, and The Doors, to name a
few. That’s why the “female habituées of the Fillmore
East and Max's Kansas City”, as Ms. Greer describes
them, were jealous of her.
I met Linda at Steve Paul’s “The Scene”, a nightclub
situated in byzantine basement in the heart of Hell's
Kitchen. The Scene wasn’t a classic discotheque. It was
a reflection of Steve Paul, its eccentric owner. He
fancied himself a hippy version of “Mr. Lucky”, the
nightclub owner in the fifties television show. The
brash 23-year old Paul stationed himself on a stool
near the entrance. To gain admittance you had to brave
one of his sarcastic put-downs. That was his cover
charge. He liked to play mind games.
The Scene was the most unique rock venue in New York
City. The same groups who played The Scene played
Ondine but The Scene was home to the impromptu jam.
Musicians from various groups who never played together
before got onstage and jammed. Steve Paul locked the
doors and no one got in or out. It was like rock n’
roll jail.
Tiny Tim warmed up the house singing camp show tunes in
his signature falsetto years before he appeared on the
Johnny Carson Show. When Tiny finished, he could do one
number or seven depending upon his mood, the rock stars
took the stage. That's when Linda Eastman sprang to
action. She wore two Nikons strapped across her bush
jacket like matching pistols. She was as much a fixture
at The Scene as Tiny Tim and that's saying something.
Linda worked seamlessly with the musician, stalking
them with her lens like a lioness stalks its prey. She
was part of the act. The musicians loved her because
Linda made them look good. No doubt she slept with a
few along the way but that doesn’t equate to calling
her “Linda Starfucker”.
Between sets Linda sat by herself and sipped
chardonnay. That’s how I got to know her. She was a bit
of a wallflower. Very waspy for a Jew from Scarsdale.
She wore khakis when everyone else wore caftans. Linda
liked to go against the grain. Sometimes we went
upstairs with Steve Paul and smoked a joint. The
sidewalk was teeming with hookers in hot pants. The
Scene was located on 8th Avenue, a notorious red-light
district.
Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix met onstage at The Scene.
It was the most remarkable jam I ever saw. They joined
Felix Cavalri and The Little Rascals after their show.
Hendrix set the mood with a long guitar solo. Morrison
got down on his knees and bowed to Jimi like he was a
rock god. Jim was playing to the audience pantomiming
the imaginary blow job he was giving Jimi. These two
giants played together only once and Linda captured it
with her Nikons.
She never claimed to be a professional photographer.
Linda was modest to a fault. Meanwhile, the record
companies began signing hot new groups and they needed
publicity photos and album covers. Linda was sitting on
the mother lode. Her work suddenly became valuable and
Linda a sought after photographer. She was the
architect of he own success. Were it not for the
portfolio she built at The Scene nothing would have
followed.
Linda had another full time job; single motherhood. She
was raising a four year old daughter named Heather on
her own. I don’t know how she managed. They lived in a
modest rent-control apartment. Between cameras, lenses,
film, darkroom, and rent, making ends meet was a
constant struggle. Then, almost overnight Linda was in
demand. She became one of Rolling Stone magazine’s top
photographer.
That led to a plum assignment in London to photograph
the "Swinging Sixties". I don’t recall the specifics
but I can tell you this. Linda had a longstanding crush
on Paul McCartney. Who didn’t? The Beatles’ were the
most popular group in the world and Paul was considered
the cutest mop-head. Every red-blooded American girl
had a crush on Paul McCartney in 1967.
Linda met Paul at a Georgie Fame concert on May 15,1967
at The Bag O'Nails club in London. From there they went
to The Speakeasy, a club on Margaret Street, to catch
Procol Harum. They met again four days later at the
launch party for the Sgt. Pepper album at Brian
Epstein's house in Belgravia. Her assignment complete,
Linda returned to New York City where all hell broke
loose. Their romance was front page news.
The rumor mill was working overtime. While some accused
Linda of fabricating the whole story, others accused
her of a being a home wrecker. On top of everything
else Paul was a married man. I had no reason to doubt
her. Every fiber of Linda’s being changed. She was in
love! Yet in the same breath she had a hard time
reconciling her burgeoning relationship with a living
icon.
Linda took refuge in her darkroom developing film from
her London assignment. There were several candid
close-ups of Paul. She used one to capture the most
important photograph she ever took. It was a
self-portrait done in the style of a photographic
montage. She staged it with the help of her four year
old daughter, Heather.
Heather poses in a wooden rocking chair in the
foreground. She’s naked, sitting sideways, in sharp
focus. Her body is obstructed by the chair, the pose
unrevealing. Her chin rests in the palms of her hands.
A perfectly cut blonde Pageboy frames her face. Her
blue eyes gaze at the camera, pupils dilated.
A close-up of Paul McCartney’s face looms larger than
life behind Heather. It’s haphazardly scotch-taped to
the wall. The photo is out of focus and the flash from
the strobe light casts a concave shadow. Paul and
Heather are superimposed on top of each other with
identical haircuts. Yet the contrast between them is
striking. Heather is real whereas Paul is only a
likeness. Linda looked to the future with some
trepidation.
Linda would name the photo, "MY LIFE". She gave it to
me as a gift and inscribed it on the back. It reads:
"My Life! In your hands because you're a ‘trip' you
always smile – X Linda"
Linda and Paul reunited in May 1968 in New York City
and the rest is history. They married on March 12,
1969. I never saw Linda again.


